


Hopeless hearts make me ill.

by Pwyllxiety



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Alex Rider is a Mess, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, completely brutal, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24097012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pwyllxiety/pseuds/Pwyllxiety
Summary: Some days, Alex wakes up pleasantly surprised he isn’t dead- other days he wakes up disappointed that he’s still breathing- some days it’s all sunshine and daisies and the next day someone’s pissed in his Cheerios.Life goes on.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Hopeless hearts make me ill.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm absolutely not sorry for this straight up vent fic.

Some days, Alex wakes up pleasantly surprised he isn’t dead- other days he wakes up disappointed that he’s still breathing. And honestly, that’s just how it’s been since she died. Alex doesn’t enjoy his potluck mental health all things considered, the on and off suicidal ideation really pisses him off- some days it’s all sunshine and daisies and the next day someone’s pissed in his Cheerios.

Some low days are worse than others, some days the misery is a dull and constant minimum, where a cigarette or three and a cup of coffee normally sees him through. But today is not one of those dull minimum days. Today’s one of those days where he knows he’ll end up passed out in his bathtub, from blood loss- again. One of those days where the coffee won’t cut it and is replaced with a bottle of cheap whiskey and his pack of smokes are gone within the hour.

One of those days where he’ll sit freezing on the back-step, staring into the gloomy garden, long overtaken by weeds- not that he cares. He’s almost finished his third tumbler of whiskey, the dregs of backwash, now tobacco flavoured is all that’s left in the very bottom. His fringe hangs limply over the tops of his eyes, seeming almost lifeless as the boy it belongs to. The mid October winds are sharp, and sting against skin, he doesn’t flinch anymore- long use to the sharpness it brings.

He pops the menthol filter in his next fag, and fidgets numbly with the flint of his bootleg Zippo, that he bought along with his cigarettes at the local market. The seller doesn’t care for his age, he only cares about the money Alex brings every week; they’re cheaper in the supermarket, but Alex isn’t eighteen for another eleven months. Leaving him with the marked-up price that the arsehole vender makes up every week.

He stole the whiskey from an off-license corner store near his home- it’s a small family-run business with no security cameras or door censors. So, he safely smuggles a bottle or two when he goes in for chewing gum sometimes. If the bloke behind the counter notices, Alex doesn’t know, but the man seems indifferent.

He puffs the cigarette, sucking the flames towards the tip and it catches quickly. He takes a hard drag and flicks the ashes, some dissipates into the air, and the rest hits the ground below him.

The rush hits immediately, and he almost feels relieved- the anxiety briefly alleviates and the clarity it brings is amazing, the rush passes soon after and he’s left alone again, with his unchecked emotions running overtime to remind him that he doesn’t matter. That there’s no-one left to care if he dies, if he ends it all now- who would be upset? People in suits who no longer have access to an innocent looking child to do their dirty work? Alex hardly cares for them, they ruined his life anyway.

Those people in suits, who killed his parents, and his uncle, and his guardians, and his best friends. Those people in suits who’ve caused more mental damage than could ever be repaired by a therapist. Those people in suits who have tortured him, over and over, interrogating him for answers he doesn’t have.

The “Good guys” and the “Villains” aren’t so separate, there is no black and white- Tulip Jones was just as guilty as Razim. And Alex had been stuck in the middle of all of it, aged only fourteen at the time.

He stands up, wobbling on the spot because the alcohol always seems to go to his legs first. He abandons the glass on the patio, knocking it sideways as the last of it empties into a crack in the concrete. The last of his whiskey is carried in and left on the kitchen counter, along with his fags and lighter.

And disappears upstairs into the “family” bathroom, shoving the door shut and twisting the lock, even though he lived alone, he felt a lot safer in his actions knowing there was at least two locked doors between him and the outside world.

He stripped off his jeans quickly and sits on the edge of the bath, razor in hand- staring in distain at his thighs, the remaining scabs of his last down day were fading quickly into scars and he regrets the entire idea of it all. He wishes he’d never started this particular behaviour, but there was no point being sorry when the sorrow seems never ending. He did what he could to keep the darkness in his mind at bay, even if it meant this. Even if it meant real harm over mental harm.

_He slashes downwards with the blade in his hand._

The blood the cut weeps is nothing in comparison to all the blood of others he has on his hands. All those people he killed; all those people that had been killed because he wasn’t strong enough. In his short life of treachery, he’d had forced upon him, where he wasn’t acknowledged until it suited them, it all came down to him. His actions killed people; his actions got people killed.

_He slashes again, parallel to the first._

His eyes are downcast as he begs for the pain to take over his thoughts, for his mind to melt away into silence, but it hasn’t happened yet, his internal monologue continuing still, never even pausing for breath.

_He slashes again, and again, and again. Becoming more feverish with every swipe, tears mingle with the blood in the tub._

His body slips forward, and he doesn’t fight the darkness overcoming him.

He’s gone too far this time, he knows.

He doesn’t know if he’ll come back from this one.

But he doesn’t care anymore.

_‘Jack I’m sor-’_


End file.
